


Chica

by PengyChan



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-11-28 05:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: Coco has learned this nice skeleton man she's with doesn't have a family - in the sense she does. And midway through the night she quietly offers, "You can be in mine."[Protagonist Swap AU.]





	1. Chica

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwinklingCupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinklingCupcake/gifts).



> This oneshot is based on [Twinklecupcake's AU](http://twinklecupcake.tumblr.com/tagged/coco%20au), where Imelda dies early and Coco is the one who winds up cursed in the LotD, refusing to give up music and thinking that her father is Ernesto. Héctor, entirely clueless, helps her out. 
> 
> It just occurred to me I never posted it here so here it is.

“All right, Chica, here’s the plan,” Héctor says, glancing around to make sure the way - the skies especially, what has this little girl done to piss off Pepita so much? - are clear. He supposes that the girl has a name, but _chica_ will do. She has apparently decided not to share her name and Héctor doesn’t really mind: he knows better than he’d like that, sometimes, it’s best to keep quiet about who you are.

Granted, it’s odd to imagine a kid that young on the ran from border officers and occasionally a couple of loan sharks, but then again she _does_ have Pepita at her heels; this is the second time she’s tried to corner them, too. Not that it matters: whatever she may have done, she’s just a kid. Far too young to be trapped there, far too young to die. She has to go home tonight… and possibly with his photo, so that he can cross the bridge too.

See _his_ little girl.

The thought makes him feel like something has grasped a phantom heart in his chest cavity and squeezed. The thought of the glimmer, that sensation earlier by the bridge - _something is going on, it’s Coco, Coco is in trouble and I must go to her_ \- stings, but he forces himself to push it in the back of his mind.

Chica frowns up at him. “Yes?” she asks, and Héctor realizes he just fell silent after going ‘here’s the plan’. Not very reassuring to a kid whose life is literally at stake, and he smiles. When he speaks again, his voice is upbeat as it can get.

“The way into your papá’s mansion is to win the contest, sí? We’ll go to a good friend of mine to borrow a guitar, and then we’re off,” Héctor says, “We’ll take part, win, get to the party - you meet and greet, and you get your blessing. A child’s play.”

Chica’s excited grin wavers, and she looks down. “I don’t know how to play a guitar. And I’m… not very good at singing. I can’t really do that at home.”

Ay, what a family of killjoys this kid has got. Still, better than no family at all; Héctor will drop anything musical in a heartbeat to have them back for just one _hour._ “But you can dance, no? Let me do the playing and singing, and just dance.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on, you can do it! I’ve seen you back there with the Fridas. Almost stole the scene,” he adds with a grin, kneeling down to be at her same eye level. And he means it: it was almost mesmerizing to watch her dance. She was quick on her feet, full of life, and seemed almost weightless while she twirled. What she may lack in technique, she made up for with the sheer _joy_ that shone through each  movement, each bounce of her little braids and the smile on her face.

_Coco tried to dance, when I left. Jumped around like a crazed cricket whenever she heard music. I wonder if she still does it - she must have gotten so much better. Does she think of me when she dances?_

“Really?” Chica looks up, entirely unaware of Héctor’s thoughts. She seems taken aback; it is clear that she was never before praised for her dancing.

Héctor nods so fast his teeth almost chatter. “Really! Hey, you got the right genes, you know? Your papá can dance. Mistreated the strings of his guitar and wrote some songs that would have got him killed if he ever sang them to a girl, but hey, he _is_ a good dancer.”

That makes Chica roll her eyes. Later on - at the bottom of a cenote - he will realize what is so familiar about that gesture, about the way she tilts back her head. It’s how _Imelda_ always did it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mutters, but any trace of annoyance fades quickly into excitement. “Maybe he’ll give me a few tips,” she says, sounding so _hopeful._ “He left before he could teach me.”

 _And I can’t understand how could he,_ Héctor thinks, but of course he has no high ground to stand on. He left, too. Always meant to come back, but… well. He died, and the bottom line was that he had left and never returned. Did Coco wish for dance lessons, too?

The thought stings, and he reaches to ruffle Chica’s hair before he stands up. “Of course he’ll teach you. It’s what a papá does,” he says. He tries to sound cheery, but this time the act doesn’t come as easy… and the bitter remark that leaves him the next moment comes without any thought at all. “Not that I’d know much about being a good papá. I sort of… messed up the entire ‘family’ thing.”

That causes the girl to frown, and reach into the pocket of her dress to pull out his picture. She looks at it, and her frown turns into something sadder. “... Is that why they don’t put up your picture?” she asks. Héctor sighs.

“Yes. There was… a bad decision, some miscommunication, a bad choice of meal - should have known, that place looked seedy - and I just… wound up here. And I can’t really set things right on this end. But that will change once you put up that photo on an ofrenda! I’ll cross over and--”

“But they won’t see you,” Chica says. She means nothing by it, of course, and he knows it is true - he can only hope she will somehow _sense_ him there - but it stings nonetheless. His flinch doesn’t escape her, and she immediately looks terribly sorry. “Lo siento, I didn’t mean-- I--”

Héctor sighs, and turns. “It’s all right, gordita. We’ve got to get going to get that guitar, and then--” a sudden pull at his sleeve causes him to pause, and he looks down to see a small skeletal hand holding onto it. His eyes shift slowly to her little face, to the large eyes looking up at him. She looks so sad, and her voice is little more than a whisper.

“You can be in mine.”

_Qué?_

For a moment or two, Héctor can only stare. He knows it wasn’t meant to be a blow, but it sure feels like one, the kind that would blow all air out of his lungs if he _had_ any. He opens his mouth to speak and then he… doesn't. Within him, an ache that never leaves him fades for a few moments before flaring up again, worse than it’s been in years.

Last time it hurt like this was when Imelda had died of a fever and he found out, in the worst way, why he could never cross over.

 _“Go away!”_  
_“Imelda, I--”_  
_“Leave! Now!”_  
_“I tried to cross-- my photo, it was never--”_  
_“Why would we put it up? You left us!”_  
_“I… I did, but-- our family--”_ _  
_ _“My family! Not yours! Never yours!”_

“My family,” Chica is saying, her grip tightening on his sleeve. “It’s small, and my uncles don’t like music, but it’s nice. I think you would like them. I can put your picture up every year, and you can visit us. I’ll leave you food, and nice shoes. We make the _best_ shoes,” she adds. Later on, that is something he’ll think he should have picked up; Imelda sounded like that, too.

But right now, he doesn’t notice; he only blinks quickly, trying to ignore the ache in his ribcage.

Part of him wishes to say yes, _so_ much. To know that somewhere in the living world there will be a family for him - one that cannot pass on his story, as none of them met him in life, but that will still put up his photo. A little girl who will make an ofrenda for him, give him offerings, excitedly wait for his visit and smile in the knowledge he’ll be there, even if she cannot see him.

It is a wonderful thought.  She is a wonderful little girl.

But she is not _his_ little girl.

_I already have a family to go back to._

_“My family! Not yours! Never yours!”_

“Chica, that--” he pauses, and swallows before crouching down. “That is really sweet of you.”

Her gaze - almost hopeful, por Dios, she truly wants him in her family and it is so odd, being _wanted_ \- clouds with something that is sadness, hurt and disappointment all at once. “But…?”

“I already have a family to get back to, gordita,” he says, and ruffles her hair. “And you already have--” _A papá._ “... You don’t need me.”

“But I _want_ you to stay with us,” she says, her voice thin. “You’re nice, and your family… if they…” _Don’t want you._ “... It’s like not having one at all, and it’s not fair!” She sniffles, but her eyes stay dry as she lifts her chin.

Héctor stares right back into those eyes, so large and kind and _stubborn,_ and he finds himself thinking that wherever his Coco his, however she is doing, he truly hopes she’s growing up just like this little chica. She really is everything he hoped to see Coco become.

_But I will know. I will find out. I need to cross the bridge._

“Ay, Chica, come here,” he mutters, and pulls her in a hug - or tries to. She resists, pulling away and shaking her head.

“No! Why is it… what is it that-- what is it that people don’t _want_ to be my family?” Chica chokes out, and rubs her eyes furiously. Héctor stares, mouth agape.

“What…?”

“My papá left! I can barely remember him singing - I didn’t even know who he was until I found that ripped photo! He left and-- and he never came back-- he never wrote again, and then he _died,_ and--!”

“Oye, oye,” Héctor murmurs, and pulls the child close. She sniffles and clings back to him, the hand that isn’t holding his photo clenching on his jacket. “It’s all right, I… I am sure your papá wanted to come back,” he manages. “He must have really wanted to come back, but you know… performing takes you far away from home. Before you know it it’s been a long time, and… well. You know, you eat the wrong thing, and that is it,” he adds.

_Food poisoning of all things, doing us both in less than ten years apart. Fate has the worst sense of humor._

That is another piece of the puzzle he will put together only later - how this chica seemed just a bit too old to have been born after his death, which should bring the question of how come he’d never known his best friend had a daughter of his own - but right now, he’s not thinking of it. After all, given how said _best friend_ went on to take all credit for his songs, he may have never known him as well as he thought he did.

The only thing that matters is that there is a child, a little girl just like _his_ little girl, who needs his help.

_Does Coco feel like this, too? God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

“I’m sure your papá will be overjoyed to meet you,” he says, rubbing her back. “I mean, who wouldn’t be?” he adds, and pulls back just enough to smile at her. “You know, I hope my daughter turned out like you.”

That causes Chica to blink, and maybe Héctor has said too much, but he’ll take the dawning comprehension on her face over her tears any day. “You’re a papá, too?”

“Sí. So, you see, I really need to go back to her. She’s about your age, you know,” he says, and he’s about to add something - but then a clock chimes in the distance, and he recoils.

_What are we still doing here? We need to go. We need to get to Ernesto before it’s too late._

“... You know what, I’ll tell you about her before you go,” he says, and pats her shoulder. “Maybe you can find her, sí? I’m sure you’d be good friends. And then I’d be, say, your honorary tío, no?”

The idea makes her laugh a little. “A third tío?” she asks, making a face, and he laughs as well.

“The weird tío.”

“You don’t know _how_ weird my uncles are.”

“The fun one, then?”

“... That sounds good,” Chica concedes, and they share another laugh before she turns serious. “I will put your photo up, and find your daughter, and tell her…” a pause. “What should I tell her?”

_That her papá loves her so much. That I’m so sorry. That I really tried to go home._

With a long sigh, Héctor stands. “We’ll talk about it once we get to Ernesto. Come on, nenita - we’re off to get us a guitar.”

As he sets out walking and she follows, a spring in her step, Héctor thinks that it would be nice if she did meet Coco. Maybe they would be good friends.

And maybe she would teach her to dance all the dances they could never have.


	2. Mija

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another oneshot, based on the same AU, for the lovely Twinklecupcake! They requested "something for Hector after he's realized just who 'Chica' really is", so here it is. Hope you like it - and happy birthday!

_I need to get out. I must get out. I must find Chica-- get her away from him-- tell everyone what he did-- cross the bridge--_

Héctor’s thoughts are a jumbled mess of anger, desperation, and the sort of utter bewilderment that can only come with the sudden knowledge he’s been murdered, and by his best friend of all people. He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but he does know that this can’t be out it ends, at the bottom of a damp cenote, trapped forever with his little girl at the other side of the bridge. Trapped forever with his little girl on _this_ side of the bridge.

The thought chills him to the marrow. It would mean losing the one hope he holds onto - that even of he can never cross over, one day her life will have run its course and he will see her again in the Land of the Dead. But if he stays trapped in there until he’s forgotten and turns to dust-- if he cannot find a way out-- then he will never see her again. He will never speak to her again. He will never hug her again.

He will never be able to tell her how sorry he is, how loved she was, how he tried to come home.

“No,” he chokes out, clawing at the ridiculously smooth wall of the cenote, trying to gain some traction-- trying to climb up. “No, no, no, no! Let me out of here! _Ernesto!_ You can’t do this to me! Someone, anyone--”

_“NO!”_

The sudden shriek above him causes him to trail off and look up, alarmed. It is the voice of a terrified child, and one he’s learned to know well; horror wells in his ribcage at the realization.

_It can’t be. Not his own daughter. What is he doing, why, how could he--_

“No, no, no, no! Let me go! Please! _Papá!_ PA--”

There are shadows above him, against the pale light making it into the cenote, and with one last shriek something is suddenly dropped, down down down into the water.

“Chica!”

Héctor is in the water the next moment, just as the little girl breaks the surface with a gasp and struggles to stay afloat. “Papá!” she calls out, looking up, and the despair in her voice cuts deep.

“I’ve got you,” Héctor gasps, putting an arm around her and helping her stay afloat. “I’ve got you, Chica, come--”

“Héctor,” she chokes out, and clings back to him. He can’t see tears, her face all wet, but he hears them in her voice. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

“Hey, hey--”

“I should have listened to you! I should have listened to mamá and my tíos and Ceci and-- they told me, you all _told_ me-- mamá tried to warn me and I ran away from her-- mamá loves me and he _doesn’t_ and I said such mean things to her...!”

By the time they make it to solid ground, the little girl is a sobbing mess. How could she not? Finding out that her papà - the man she hardly remembered but whose faint, faint memory she’d so clung to for so long - was a murderer, a fraud, and willing to let her die to keep his secret… it would break anyone. “... We’ll get you to your mamá, yes?” he says gently, pulling her close. She’s shaking, but still so warm compared to him; her bones can be seen, but not felt. She is still alive, and does _not_ belong here.

_But she will, if she stays any longer._

He chases away the thought, trying to reassure her; she’s curling up against him, and he finds himself rocking her like he did to his Coco, only a few years and yet an eternity ago. Ay, how he misses her. “We’ll find a way out,” he promises, knowing there is none. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you, and give you her blessing to go home, and… and this will be like a bad dream.”

“But it isn’t,” Chica chokes out. “It’s all true. And-- he _murdered_ you-- I’m so sorry--”

“It wasn’t you, nenita. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“He didn’t care. All those letters and he didn’t care,” she’s weeping quietly now, head resting against Héctor’s ribcage, where his heart would be. And something may very well be there, because oh, there is such a _tightness_ in his chest cavity.

“Chica--”

“We had a song-- he said it was for me, but then he shared it with everyone else… a-and it wasn’t even his song! He stole it!”

Remember Me. That backstabbing rat had sung her _Coco’s_ song, of all songs, and meant precisely none of it. Anger rears up its head, and he opens his mouth to speak-- but she speaks first, and whatever he was about to mutter turns into ashes in his mouth.

“He said it was our secret song, that-- not even mamà knew it, and we could sing it together every night, no matter how far apa--”

 _“Qué??”_ His outburst causes the child to recoil, and pull back to look up at him, startled. Her eyes look so large for her little face, and for the first time-- no. No, it cannot be. This is all… this isn’t… it would be absurd. Ernesto had used his songs for fame, his death for a movie scene-- surely he wouldn’t hesitate to use his exact words, too.

_But he never heard them, did he? No one ever did, except--_

“... Coco?”

Those warm brown eyes grow larger, stunned. She looks up at him like he’s grown antlers.  “How… how did you guess my name?”

 _His Coco._ For a moment, Héctor cannot speak. Something in his head is buzzing like a trapped moth; the greatest shock of his life or afterlife - his best friend _murdering_ him - suddenly doesn’t seem all that shocking anymore. He reaches out, his hand moving almost on its own, to brush away some of the wet hair stuck on her cheek. Oh God, how could he not realize it sooner? The eyes, those cheekbones, the chin-- the tilt of her head so much like Imelda’s-- the fact _Pepita_ was after her when they met… how could he be so blind?

“Héctor?” Coco whispers, anguish melted away into confusion… and something else, something that is balancing just on the brink of comprehension. She keeps staring, transfixed, as Héctor’s bony hand cups her cheek.

“... You got so big,” is all he can say. Suddenly he has no more words… but what he does have, what _they_ do have, is a song. _“Remember me, though I have to say goodbye, remember me…”_

As the words come unbidden to his mouth and the melody fills the cave - the real melody, how it was always meant to be, not the shambles Ernesto turned it into - he can see his Coco’s eyes growing bigger, comprehension finally dawning in. And then-- then she sings, too, a small hand reaching up for his face, almost close enough to touch.

_“Know that I'm with you the only way that I can be...”_

_“... Until you’re in my arms again…”_

She remembered. She _remembers,_ and suddenly her eyes are brimming with tears again, the way they would when she was little more than a baby and had a bad dream, when he and Imelda would come with a candle to comfort her _._

“PAPÁ!”

Her shriek echoes throughout the cenote, her arms reach around him, and Héctor holds her close and tight, tighter than he ever held anyone in life or death. It is staggering, incomprehensible: after years of trying, it wasn’t him to cross the bridge. Coco did, and she found him. All along, for hours now, his little girl has been right by his side. In his arms again.

“Coco,” Héctor manages. “Mija...” he pulls back with what feels like the biggest effort he’s ever made, staring down at her. He cups her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “I was trying to come home-- I kept trying, every year. I missed you so much. I love you so much.”

“I missed you too,” she chokes out. “A-and mamá-- she thinks you just left, and I thought-- I didn’t want to believe it, but I you never came--”

“I was trying, Coco, I was trying to come home. I’m so sorry, I should have never left.”

She sniffles, wiping her eyes. “H-he… de la Cruz… he killed you,” she whispers, and suddenly she’s glaring, features twisting in fury. “He took you from us!”

He did, and Héctor will probably be furious again soon enough, but right now all he can think is that he has his little girl again. Coco is with him, and everything is all right.

… Except that it isn’t. Coco is not meant to be there. Coco cannot _stay_ there.

“You… you need to go home,” Héctor says, pulling back. She shakes her head.

“No! I need to tell mamá what really happened before I go back! And... I can’t leave you here! We must get out, a-and-- the photo, we have to get it back…!”

“I’ll be fine,” he lies. He has no idea if he’ll ever be able to get out of there at all, or if so when, and the thought of sending his little girl away from him now hurts, but he brushes all of that aside. “If you stay here, you’ll die. I can’t let it happen. I can-- God, I could have given you the blessing all along! You could have gone home-- I-- I’ll do it now!”

Her little face falls. “Papá…”

“Hush. Por favor,” he brushes the back of his hand against her cheek. It’s so small, so soft, so warm. Flesh and skin and blood-- it’s _life,_ all hers to live. He makes an effort to smile, and reaches for her wet hair. “Go home for both of us, sí? Pass on my story. I… I'll find  way across, and you'll see me again one da--”

The flowers. The marigold flowers he’d woven in her hair before the talent show are gone.

_No. Oh no. No, no, no._

Horror must have shown in his gaze, and Coco looks up at him in despair. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Héctor shakes his head. He feels as though something had struck him.

“Th-they must have come loose when they threw you in,” he mutters, and stands, taking a few steps towards the water. “I’ll have a dive and find them, we only need a petal, they-- they must be somewhere in the wa--”

“I took them off.” Coco’s voice is so small, so regretful and frightened. “A-after we a-argued at the talent show-- I was so mad, I’m sorry, I took them all off and now--!”

“Coco…” Héctor kneels next to her, or maybe his legs give in, but it doesn’t matter. He takes her back in his arms, tight. “I’m the one who’s sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice-- I just-- all I could think was crossing the bridge…”

“To see me,” Coco sniffles, and he nods.

“Yes. Yes, mija, to see you.”

“I-- I’m sorry I lied to you. I really wanted to see my papà,” she mutters, holding him back. “... I have now. I’m _so_ happy it’s you.”

It would make his non-existent heart swell, in any other moment, but not now and not here. Even as he smiles down at her, all he could think is how desperate their situation is: stuck at the bottom of a cenote, without anyone who’d help knowing it… and her time is running out.

It’s his fault, Héctor thinks, all his fault. How could he be such an idiot? So many details fit now that he knew the truth, how could he not realize earlier that he was looking at his own daughter? How could he be so blind not to recognize the most important thing in his world? He could have given her his blessing any moment, he could have sent her _home_ any moment, and he had not.

 _Remember me,_ he’d asked of her, but he… he couldn’t even recognize her. His mind was stuck on the image of the small child he’d left behind, and now it’s too late. He messed up again, and in the worst possible way. He doomed her, he--

“We’ve got to look for a way out,” Coco speaks suddenly, and stands. She wiped her face and looked down at him, a scowl creasing her brow, looking so much like a general poised for battle.

So much like Imelda.

“We have to get your picture back so you can cross over! And we need to find mamá and tell her the truth,” she declares. “She thinks you left us and it’s not _fair._ And we’ve got to tell everyone what de la Cruz did! He murdered you and took your songs and he’s got to pay for what he did to our family!”

Yes. Definitely Imelda.

Pushing the dread - _it is useless, there is no way out_ \- out of his mind Héctor stands, and takes her hand. She’s right: they must find a way out, or at least try. He never gave up trying to cross the bridge and he won’t give up now, either. Not with his daughter’s life at stake.

“... Right,” he says, and makes an effort to smile. “Let’s find a way out of here, mija.”

Coco gives him a smile that contains all the beauty in the world, and Héctor is too mesmerized by it to hear, somewhere above them, the flapping of huge wings as _something_ lands by the sinkhole.

The roar, however, doesn't go unnoticed.

* * *

“-- _Grounded for your entire afterlife, do you hear me?_ Oh just you _wait_ until you cross over again! Run off to de la Cruz’s mansion! What was _that_ even about??”

Her mamá’s voice rises over the wind rushing against her face and over the powerful beats of Pepita’s wings, all anger and terror and relief and unshakeable _love_ underneath it all. It makes her smile wider as he papá, holding onto Pepita’s tail, speaks up in her defense.

“It’s not her fault, Imelda! She thought Ernesto was her father!”

“SHE THOUGHT WHAT!” Something else enters her mamá’s voice - utter _outrage_ \- and Coco’s smile turns just a little sheepish. “If he were the last man on Earth, I wouldn’t-- how could...!”

“Well… you know, that photo, and the guitar…”

“YOU-- me, marry that cabrón! I have never been so _insulted_ in my life and afterlife!”

“Sorry!”

“You better be, señorita!” Her mamá raves on a little more, but Coco can’t stop smiling. They’re not out of the woods yet, they still have a photo to recover and a murderer to kick _very_ hard in the shins, and her mamá is still mad at her papá - but they can fix everything.

Her familia is together again and she believes, with all her heart, that all will be well.


End file.
